


you were a kindness

by Wildehack (tyleet)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), M/M, Mentioned Suicidal Ideation, background Tim/Sasha, this is a PWP but SAD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 17:56:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19796050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyleet/pseuds/Wildehack
Summary: Tim decides early on that he isn’t going to fuck Martin, despite the freckles.





	you were a kindness

**Author's Note:**

> Written for fataldrum! 
> 
> The title is from the National's song of the same name. This is the bit that's getting to me: 
> 
> _You were a kindness when I was a stranger_  
>  But I wouldn't ask for what I didn't need  
> Everything's weird and we're always in danger  
> Why would you shatter somebody like me?
> 
> _It doesn't work that way_

Tim decides early on that he isn’t going to fuck Martin, despite the freckles.  
  
For lots of reasons, honestly, but pretty high on the list is the part where Martin is obviously and painfully the boyfriend type, and Tim doesn’t want to have to extricate himself from a succession of Fridays spent watching bad sci fi on a laptop while Martin gazes at him soppily just because he’d kind of like to see what color his nipples are.   
  
There’s also the part where Martin is obviously and hopelessly infatuated with their boss, and Tim is in--something, with Sasha. He’s in lots of somethings with lots of people, but the thing with Sasha is different. She’s uh, his best friend, or something like it. For a while. And he always sort of hoped that--eventually, maybe, it would be him and Sasha.   
  
Things change after he finds out exactly what is wrong with the Magnus Insitute. _Things_ , Christ. _Everything_ changes. For start, Sasha is dead, and he can’t even--he thought he was in _love_ with her, and he can’t even know if she was tall or short, blonde or brunette, funny or serious. Also Elias is a monster and Jon is turning into one and Tim is increasingly certain that the things that killed Danny are going to kill him, and it all starts feeling pretty fucking hopeless.   
  
Increasingly, in fact, the only thing that still feels like the world Tim remembers--the real world, the one that left him fucking behind after Jane Prentiss attacked and Sasha leapt out of a locked room to save him--is Martin. 

Martin’s still puttering around the Archives, still making tea and reminding Tim and Jon both to eat, still laboring through his Latin translations and rescuing spiders from Melanie’s wrath. It’s like the whole world got shaken up and rearranged but somehow missed Martin Blackwood, left him solid and whole, a fixed point in the hellscape that is Tim’s life now.   
  
It’s not anything in particular that changes Tim’s mind.   
  
He’s pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to walk back his migraine before it fully sets in, and Martin is across the room, waiting at the kettle. He’s got four mugs out, and is absently measuring out milk between them while he waits for the water to boil, and Tim feels a sudden rush of fondness so sharp it’s almost irritation.   
  
The water boils, and Martin pours it out and then picks up the tray, the mug Jon prefers carefully balanced at the corner. He catches Tim looking, and makes a face. “Don’t start,” Martin warns him, and opens the door to Jon’s office. There’s a low rumble of voices from inside, and when Martin comes out, he’s bright pink and he looks tentatively pleased, and for no reason at all Tim hates it and decides to put a stop to it.   
  
He stands up, crosses to Martin, and plucks his own mug off the tray. “Come out for drinks tonight,” he says, still standing quite close, and Martin laughs.   
  
“It’s Tuesday,” Martin points out, and Tim shrugs. Deliberately blows on his tea.   
  
“Come out anyway,” he suggests, and Martin looks pleased with Tim now, and--that’s what Tim wants, he realizes. He wants _that._ To put his hands on something real, to take it into himself and feel--human, and alive, to cling onto the whole sane universe that Martin represents with both hands. He doesn’t change his expression, but he--people have responded well to Tim looking at them, in the past. He looks at Martin, and Martin colors.  
  
”Um, okay,” Martin says. “Maybe just one drink.”   
  
”Great,” Tim says, and takes a slow sip of his tea.   
  
*  
  
“Listen,” Martin says, gasping a little in Tim’s arms, “Are you sure this is a good idea?”   
  
Tim has Martin crowded up against the alley wall outside the pub, and Martin’s body is soft and welcoming, his pulse racing under Tim’s fingers, his thighs spreading automatically, making room for Tim to fit between them. “What,” Tim says, and kisses Martin’s jaw. “You don’t want to?”   
  
“Um,” Martin says, sort of high pitched, “No, I--I want to, but--don’t you think this might, might make things awkward at--work?”   
  
“Not if we don’t let it,” Tim says persuasively, and kisses Martin again, sweet as he can, while simultaneously stroking a hand down Martin’s belly, stopping just above his belt buckle and drawing little circles into the skin there.  
  
Martin moans into his mouth, and when Tim lets him breathe again he laughs and clutches Tim’s shoulders. “All right,” he says, breathless. “Okay, you’ve convinced me. Mine or yours?”   
  
“Yours is closer,” Tim says, because he’s been to Martin’s before, helped him move out of the flat Prentiss trapped him in to a new one with fewer windows.   
  
An expression crosses Martin’s face that Tim correctly identifies as panic at having left the place untidy, so he kisses Martin again to distract him. “That’s, that’s fine,” Martin says a few minutes later, and tugs Tim towards the bus stop.   
  
Martin’s flat is a mess--there’s old takeaway boxes left on the table, there are bags of recycling sitting by the door waiting to be taken out, and it looks exactly like a place where a real person lives, not like Tim’s increasingly horrible flat full of books he no longer has the energy to read.   
  
“Bed,” Tim says to Martin’s embarrassed expression, and that gets him through to Martin’s bedroom.   
  
Martin’s nipples are pink as strawberry fucking ice cream, and he shivers like he’s freezing when Tim sucks them stiff. “Wow,” Martin says shakily when Tim stops playing with them to tug at Martin’s belt buckle, and almost trips over his own trousers stripping them off.   
  
“I want to suck you off,” Tim says, stroking the waistband of Martin’s pants. They’re thin and graying, clearly not worn with any kind of intent, and Martin is half-hard under them. “That okay?”   
  
“--Yup,” Martin says, swallowing. “Yup, that’s, that’s good with me.”   
  
Tim gets down on his knees and thinks that this is exactly what he wanted. Maybe it’s even exactly what he’s wanted for years.   
  
Martin’s cock down his throat is exactly as grounding as he thought it would be. He encourages Martin to tug his hair, and that’s even better, Martin making shocked little sounds over him and raking his fingers through Tim’s hair, hands shaking very slightly.   
  
Martin’s bright red and his thighs are wonderfully tense by the time Tim slides off him and brushes a close-mouthed kiss to Martin’s hipbone. “Condoms?” he asks, and smiles when Martin doesn’t answer him right away, just stares yearningly down at him, one hand still pressed to the back of Tim’s neck.  
  
“Um,” Martin says belatedly, and lets Tim go to fumble at the drawer of the bedside table. “Right.”   
  
Tim undresses while Martin rifles through the drawer, and realizes with an odd distance that he’s gagging for it, as desperate as if it had been Martin’s mouth around him.   
  
“Oh god,” Martin says, sounding humiliated, and Tim turns back to see Martin hunched over himself, holding an--oh. An empty box of condoms. He wonders when Martin last did this with someone, and feels a hot rush of fondness. Martin’s apologizing is also endearing, as though Tim weren’t fucking desperate to touch him, however Martin will allow. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t--um, I guess it’s--been a while, and I didn’t--uh. God, this is embarrassing.”   
  
“Don’t be stupid,” Tim says easily, and enjoys the little start Martin gives when he fully realizes the fact of Tim’s nakedness. Tim joins him on the bed and kisses him until the line of Martin’s shoulders smooths out. “There’s plenty we can still do,” he murmurs into Martin’s ear. “I could work you over with my fingers. We could sixty-nine. Or I could fuck your thighs.”   
  
“Oh _god_ ,” Martin says, choked, and Tim smiles.   
  
“You want that?” he says, and slips his hand down to palm the soft skin of Martin’s inner thigh. “You want me to fuck your gorgeous thighs?”   
  
“Y-yeah, that would be, yes, that’s--excellent,” Martin says breathlessly, spreading his legs a little to make room for Tim’s hand.   
  
Tim kisses Martin’s shoulder, squeezes his thigh. “On your side, then,” he says, and reaches for the lube Martin did manage to unearth from the drawer as Martin complies. He warms up a handful and admires the stretch of Martin next to him, the broad back and generous ass, the red flush on the back of his neck.

“I don’t know why we haven’t done this before,” he remarks, and slides a hand between Martin’s legs. Martin jumps, then shivers as Tim strokes him, making a slick, warm space for himself. 

“Uh,” Martin replies, arching his back in a little movement that Tim thinks is probably involuntary. “Right at this moment, I’m not sure either?” 

Tim laughs and adds more lube, teasing Martin’s hole a bit just because he can, which earns him a long groan and a little twitch of his hips.   
  
“All right,” Martin says, and turns to look over his shoulder as Tim slicks himself up, his mouth falling open so Tim has to kiss him. He’s still kissing Martin when he nudges at the crease of his thighs and slips between them. It’s good. It’s _very_ good, it’s hot and soft and real, and Tim makes an involuntary noise when Martin squeezes his legs together more tightly.   
  
Everything after that goes sort of hazy and feral. Tim grips Martin’s hips and fucks him hard, occasionally bumping Martin’s balls with the head of his cock, making Martin suck in a gasp every time. Tim feels--nearly alive, _really_ alive, like he isn’t just killing time until the Unknowing, like his life didn’t fucking end when he signed his contract for the Magnus Institute, and it’s so good it’s nearly painful.   
  
“I just,” he says into Martin’s shoulder, embarrassing tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, “--I fucking-- _can’t_ ,” he manages, and Martin drags Tim’s hand up from his hip to his mouth so he can kiss it, mouthing messily at the knuckles. 

He also arches his back again, and the change in angle means that Tim’s cock catches on Martin’s hole, not pressing in but teasing the rim, and they both groan. “Sorry,” Martin breathes, not sounding sorry at all, and Tim drags his hand down from Martin’s mouth to start jerking Martin off.   
  
“Don’t be,” Tim says into Martin’s shoulder, and rubs his wet knuckles over the head of Martin’s dick. Martin cries out and his hips hitch awkwardly, like he can’t decide if he wants more or wants to get away. Tim fucks him harder and does it again, reaching up on instinct to squeeze one of those sweet pink nipples at the same time. “You’re perfect.”   
  
“ _Shit_ ,” Martin says, and goes stiff in Tim’s arms, thighs clamping down on Tim’s cock. 

Tim works him through it, drinking in every little moan and quiver, stroking him until Martin laughs shakily and pushes him away. Tim briefly wants to keep going, wants to touch Martin until he’s hard again and they don’t have to stop.   
  
“Okay,” Martin says, breathless, and turns in Tim’s arms, wet and messy with his own come, and pulls Tim down on top of him. “Okay, come on.”   
  
Tim fits his cock back between Martin’s thighs, feeling more hesitant now that they’re face to face, and Martin sighs against his cheekbone, brings his arm up around Tim’s neck. “Come on,” he repeats softly, and rolls his hips up.   
  
Tim rocks against him once, then twice, and then he can’t stop, fucking Martin’s thighs with total abandon, chasing the orgasm he’s been on the edge of all night but somehow unable to find with Martin looking at him, warm and guileless. Tim wants to say that he loves him, wants to say just love me better than you do the monsters trying to kill us, wants to say please, whatever trick you have of staying real while the world unravels around us, please teach it to me, I’ll do anything. His eyes are stinging again, so he shuts them, pressing his face into Martin’s neck, and Martin strokes his hair and urges him on with a hand on Tim’s hips.   
  
“You’re all right,” Martin says into his ear, and his thighs are even softer now that he’s come, the internal tension dissipated, and he’s got his arms around Tim like he’s anchoring him to his own body, stopping him from just drifting away into nothing. Martin kisses Tim’s temple and says: “I’ve got you,” and Tim chokes on the lump that’s unexpectedly risen in his throat and lets go, white heat overtaking everything else for a few breaths.   
  
When he comes back to himself he’s mortified to realize that he’s weeping. He’s never been a crier--he's usually controlled in bed and he hardly ever gets emotional about orgasms--so it doesn’t make any sense that he’s sobbing into Martin’s shoulder, cock softening between Martin’s legs. But he is, and Martin is still just holding him, rubbing Tim’s back like he’s a child instead of a lover, murmuring soothing nonsense into Tim’s hair.   
  
“God,” Tim says wetly, when he’s almost got the lump in his throat under control, “God, Martin, I’m sorry about this.”   
  
“It’s okay,” Martin says, very sad and very kind. “I miss her too.”   
  
The bottom drops out of Tim’s stomach. “Oh _Christ_ ,” he says, and then he’s crying again, and he doesn’t even know what he’s sad for: that he’s not in love with Martin after all, that there is no real refuge from the hell they live in, that Danny is dead and the things that got him are gonna get Tim too, that a woman he doesn’t remember died alone and in pain and he can’t even grieve for her.  
  
Eventually he cries himself out, and Martin slips away, comes back with a washcloth and some water.   
  
“I should go,” Tim says, taking the washcloth with a dull pang of loss.   
  
“Um, I think you should stay,” Martin replies, and settles hesitantly back on the bed beside him. “I don’t think--you should be alone right now?”   
  
Tim looks up at the ceiling, feeling more tired than he ever has in his life. “Yeah,” he says, hollow. “You’re probably right about that.” 

“Right,” Martin says, and takes the washcloth back from him. He cleans Tim up with gentle efficiency, and then makes Tim drink some of the water, and finally pulls Tim back into his arms, although this time there’s nothing sexual about it. 

“You and Jon,” Martin says eventually into the dark of the room. “You always try to carry it all by yourselves, and that’s really stupid when you, you don’t have to.”   
  
“Can’t cry on your shoulder every day,” Tim answers him, and Martin snorts out a faint laugh.   
  
“I mean, I wasn’t exactly complaining.”   
  
“But doing it again--”   
  
“--Probably a bad idea,” Martin finishes softly so Tim doesn’t have to say it, painfully generous.   
  
“Well,” Tim says, deliberately ignoring the fact that his throat is tightening again, just a little. “If you ever need to--cry on someone’s shoulder. I’m available.”   
  
There’s a short silence, and then Martin answers him, sounding alarmingly close to tears already. “Um. Okay. Thanks, Tim.”   
  
Tim turns his head into Martin’s chest in reply, and Martin’s hand comes up to pet the back of his neck, and for a little while longer they can both pretend like there’s any way to stay in the world after you’ve started to drift free. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make me happy, and apparently so does being very mean to poor Tim Stoker.


End file.
